


Caliburnus

by Calyps0



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Arthurian, Arthurian legend - Freeform, Character Study, Lightsaber, Metaphor, One Shot, Short, i dunno, lightsaber as sword, sword - Freeform, was gonna write more but ran out of ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:07:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25562557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calyps0/pseuds/Calyps0
Summary: In the stories, no one ever cracks the stone.
Kudos: 1





	Caliburnus

In the stories, no one ever cracks the stone.

The sword stays, snug and sure, against cold gray granite, and hands pull fast at the golden hilt:

Thick hands, slim hands, large hands, small hands. Thin-boned, graceful fingers, knobbly, curved claws, the weathered calluses of laborers, the papery wrinkles of age, the chubby red fists of youth.

Every hand, poised to tug, nailbeds flush against the handguard, or curled around the hilt, or even fisted around the pommel, like a root to be pulled from the ground.

The sword, not the stone.

And they all fail.

But not him.

\---

To access his sword, he does not pull it at all.

He _breaks_ the stone instead, rends it cleanly in two. It weeps red, as stones are sometimes wont to do, but it dries its tears soon enough. It has a cross guard to inhabit, after all, a hilt to warm to a fiery, blade-sharp heat. There are battles to be won, enemies to be felled, grudges to be settled in solemn, unquestionable finality.

The stone’s gleaming pieces are slotted in, pieced together, and _ignited._

He grins, and not for its splendor. No, this sword—all raw-red edges and an almost sentient vibrating intensity—is no Excalibur. No, it is a thing of beauty and terror, all unto itself.

(It is a clever, sharp-witted thing to have done, breaking the stone. A way to get around the riddle. He should congratulate himself on his skill.)

But the stone is still weeping, silently, caged beneath criss-crossing layers of thick black metal. His smile fades. He does not pity it, though, not yet.

He is far too busy pitying himself.

\---

The sword serves him well, for a time. It strikes down enemies with frightening accuracy, slays adversaries with the broad weight of a weapon twice its size. Its sparking, sizzling surface spits dragon-like tongues of flame, and all foes who bear witness to its triumph see the crossed red beams as a laughing crimson death-knell.

And rightfully so.

\---

In the stories, no one ever cracks the stone.

(It still weeps—its cries silent but thrumming—through every slash, every parry, every thrust. He doesn’t pity it, not yet.

But he will.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please let me know if you enjoyed <3


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